


Keep It Undercover

by ladyblahblah



Series: Come To My Window [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeperwolf, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Derek, PWP, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has left his window open again, and there's only so much temptation a wolf can take.  Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/461812">Hale Bait</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep It Undercover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kdjslvgds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdjslvgds/gifts).



> This is a fic fill for one of my auction winners, [callmestiletto](http://www.callmestiletto.tumblr.com). Thank you so much for your generous contribution to Wolf Haven International! YAY WOLVES! Title is from "Your Love" by The Outfield.
> 
> Also, please note that it turns out that writing this from Derek's POV made it feel a bit more dub-conny than I'd originally intended? Erm. If you think that may be a problem, please proceed with caution.

 

 

Stiles has left his window open again.

 

Derek knows it before he's within a block of the house, cruising slowly with the Camaro's windows down, a nightly patrol he started when Deucalion's pack was still a threat and never quite managed to stop. As unstable as his own pack can still be at times, with the attractive territory that they control, it seems like they're always under threat from one thing or another. Derek likes to stay alert.

 

It's the shifting wind that dooms him, blowing suddenly into his car from the west and carrying with it the faint smell of sweat and the sharp, unmistakable scent of arousal. Derek feels it like a punch to the gut; his hands tighten around the steering wheel and he pulls over, idling in the shadows between streetlights as he tries to get himself back under control.

 

It's been a week now. A week of these patrols, a week of enduring this olfactory assault carried on the warm night air. A week since the first night, when the smell had been just familiar enough for curiosity to overpower common sense and he had followed his nose across darkened backyards until he realized that he should have left well-enough alone. Because he never needed to know what arousal and satisfaction would do to Stiles's scent; never needed to know how he would sound as pleasure overtook him, his grunts and gasps and smothered moans as he worked himself over; never needed to see Stiles's face in the light of day and wonder how it would feel to see those pale cheeks flushed, lips parted and bitten red, long fingers—

 

He hadn't needed the faint buzzing that told him that Stiles's hands weren't always enough. He hadn't needed the curiosity that came with that realization, the inability to keep from wondering if Stiles had been on his back or on his knees, legs curled towards his chest or shoulders planted against the mattress. Above all, he hadn't needed the guilt that swamped him when he couldn't stop from stretching out on his own bed later, hand shoved down his pants as he considered the possibilities.

 

It needs to stop. And Derek is becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that it's not going to unless he does something about it.

 

He locks the car behind him, letting his sense of indignation build as he marches towards the Stilinski house. Stiles's best friend has been a werewolf for over two years now; over half of his main social group consists of werewolves; he's been present on more than one occasion when the pack has tracked its prey by scent. He should know full well what it means, leaving his window open while he . . . while he does _that._

 

The idea that he might, in fact, know full well what he's doing has Derek stumbling to a sudden halt. Stiles isn't stupid, after all. But then, he isn't precisely _subtle_ , either. If he'd wanted someone to know what he was doing, there's no doubt in Derek's mind that Stiles would have made the sentiment perfectly clear. Derek remembers what it was like to be a teenager, to have all common sense go flying out the window once your dick got involved; at least Stiles is confining his bad decisions to a little bit of accidental exhibitionism. God knows it could've been a lot worse.

 

Derek starts walking again, firming his resolve. Stiles will probably be mortified when he realizes what he's been doing; he'll start keeping his window closed, and Derek won't have to smell or hear him anymore. He can go back to keeping Stiles safely tucked away as the obnoxious, hyperactive pest whose usefulness manages to outweigh how he's somehow burrowed his way into Derek's life without his invitation or consent.

 

The Jeep is alone in the driveway, so Derek doesn't bother being quiet as he vaults his way up onto the roof. If the Sheriff's not around to shoot him, he figures he might as well give Stiles some warning to get himself covered up. It's a fine sentiment, but apparently he's underestimated just how far gone Stiles is already, because by the time he makes it to the overhang outside of the open window, he gets far more of an eyeful than he'd planned on.

 

Stiles is stretched out on his bed, eyes closed and stark naked, all long limbs and a scattering of dark moles over what seems like miles of pale skin, bare to Derek's eyes and flushed softly pink with arousal. His feet are planted solidly against the mattress as he thrusts up into the hand he has wrapped around his cock, legs spread so wide that Derek has no trouble seeing the way one of his fingers is playing over his hole, circling and pressing before pulling away again. The tease has Derek breathless, aching in sympathy and desperate to see more. He doesn't realize how long he's been there, crouched outside the window and _watching_ , until he sees Stiles's jaw clench, watches his right hand tighten around the base of his cock as his left hand pulls away entirely, and—

 

“Having second thoughts?”

 

Stiles's alarmed squawk and mad scramble for the covers brings him back to himself, helps him keep his breathing even as he moves to climb in through the window. He wasn't meant to see that, he reminds himself sternly. Not any of it. No matter how enticing the sight of it may have been, he needs to remember why he's really here.

 

“What the _fuck_ , man?” Stiles has managed to fling a corner of the bed sheet over himself, though the drape of it does little enough to disguise the fact that he seems to be just as hard as ever. “What are you—you can't just _come through my window_ like that, we've talked about this!”

 

“You left it open.” Derek swings his legs over the sill and slides inside, taking a deep breath to brace himself when—

 

“Yeah, well.” Stiles's heart is racing, filling the air with the scent of heat and salt and a sudden, unexpected spike of arousal. It's sharp and thick against the back of Derek's throat; he can almost _taste_ the way Stiles's cock is leaking, and he moves instinctively towards the bed. “It's a nice night,” Stiles says weakly, his eyes wide and unsure and locked unblinkingly on Derek.

 

“You left the window open.” Derek can hear the growl in his own voice, can feel his control begin to slip as Stiles's eyes drop to his lips. “You left it open while you were lying there touching yourself.”

 

“Um.” Stiles's Adam's apple bobs. Derek wants to feel it move against his tongue. “Well, you know, I'm a teenage boy, I think I might actually be legally obligated to touch myself whenever—”

 

“For the past _week_ ,” Derek manages, hearing his voice go rougher still, unable to stop it, “you've been leaving the window open while you get yourself off. I've been smelling it for days. Do you have any idea what that's like?”

 

“Uh. No? Sorry. I'm sorry.”

 

He's still talking, babbling something about Scott, but Derek hardly hears. What he _does_ hear is the tremor in Stiles's voice, the way his throat sounds as dry as dust. He moves closer, watching as Stiles's eyes, whiskey-gold in the dim light, drop to his mouth and skim down the line of his body. There's a wet spot growing on the sheet where it's resting over Stiles's cock, and the air has gone thick with the scent of sex and desire. It has Derek like a rope around his throat, towing him in until he's leaning over Stiles, close enough to see the hammer of his pulse in his throat.

 

“Hey.” Stiles's voice cracks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “What are you doing??”

 

“Stiles.” Derek reaches down to grab the corner of the sheet, yanking it away. The scent of Stiles's arousal hits him full-strength, deep and rich, and it takes all his willpower to keep from from reaching out to touch him. “Shut up.”

 

“Um.”

 

“Close enough.” Derek can feel himself smirking as he straightens and steps back, feeling nearly drunk at the look of disappointment on Stiles's face. “Don't let me interrupt.”

 

“ _Really_?” Stiles demands, flailing his arms in silent protest as Derek settles himself in the desk chair situated near the foot of the bed.

 

“If you're going to flaunt what you're doing in here, you shouldn't have a problem with someone watching. Don't make me ask again.”

 

Derek holds his breath, waiting. Stiles hasn't made a move to cover himself back up, hasn't actually asked Derek to leave, but he might now. And if he does, Derek will go, but he wants . . . he _wants_ . . .

 

Stiles closes his eyes and lies back, his hand already reaching down to fist around his cock. Even in the meager light Derek can see how slick it is, how Stiles's fingers slide easily down as his hips lift, seeking more. His lips have drifted open, softly parted on heavy breaths, and his left hand twitches hesitantly against the mattress.

 

“Keep going.” Those eyes open, heavy-lidded and cloudy. Derek's hands tighten around the arms of the chair. “Do it just like you would if I weren't here. Show me.”

 

The words are barely out of his mouth before Stiles's hand flings out to claw at the drawer of his bedside table, clumsy and overeager. When it opens so hard it nearly falls out entirely Stiles doesn't hesitate, simply plunges his hand inside and comes up a moment later with a bottle clutched in his fingers. A flick of his thumb has it popping open; Derek's cock twitches, hard and aching where it's trapped inside his jeans, and he wants more than anything to pull it out, to have a hand on himself while he watches Stiles. He keeps his hands where they are, however, even when Stiles upends the bottle and lets the lube coat his cock in a long, obscene stream. Derek thinks he makes some kind of a noise at that, and Stiles's eyes bore into his for a moment before they slide closed again, a wide smile spreading over his face.

 

Stiles lifts his legs into their former position, spread shamelessly wide as he plants his feet against the mattress, right hand still sliding over his cock in slow, wet strokes. His left hand drifts down, and down, fingertips skimming past his balls to press against the delicate skin around his entrance. Derek couldn't tear his eyes away if his life depended on it, can barely manage to stay where he is when he wants to learn the taste of Stiles there, wants to feel that tight ring of muscle give way beneath the point of his tongue.

 

When Stiles slides his middle finger inside with hardly any resistance, it's almost too much for Derek to bear. He watches Stiles begin to move, still pulling at his cock in a steady rhythm as he slides his finger in and out. Before Derek can recover from the sight of it the tip of Stiles's index finger is stroking at the edges of his hole; he pulls out entirely, and the next time he presses in it's with both of them together.

 

Gasps and heavy breaths are turning to moans now, the hand on his cock speeding up as he rides his fingers shamelessly, legs falling even wider in what looks like blatant invitation. There are spots of color riding high on his cheeks, and an answering flush that runs from his neck down to his collarbone. Derek wants to find out if it feels as warm as it looks, if he can make the noises falling from Stiles's mouth even more desperate, even less controlled. He wants nothing so much as to climb on top of that long, rangy body and replace Stiles's hand with his own; to stroke them both together until Stiles's skin is covered in both their come.

 

It would be wrong. _This_ is wrong. He can feel old urges rising in him—the desire to cover Stiles with his scent, to stretch him open and fill him until he can't think of anything but Derek's name. He's possessive by nature, and as difficult as it is to remember that he has no claim on Stiles now, he knows that if he touches him it will be almost impossible. He should go; write this off as a temporary lapse in sanity and just pretend—

 

“Another.” He hears himself speak as though at a distance, unsure where the word even came from. On the bed, Stiles hardly seems to have heard at all.

 

“What?” he finally says, hands slowing at last. Derek's hands tighten around the chair's arms until the air echoes with the plastic's creaking protest.

 

“Add. Another. Finger. _Now_.”

 

He sees Stiles's thighs tremble, and there's a part of him that wonders if he's gone too far. But Stiles is already pulling his fingers out and reaching for the lube again, unwilling to release his cock even for a moment. His entire hand is soaked when he slides it down again, and for just a moment Derek lets himself imagine it sliding wrist-deep inside that eager, pliable body. Then Stiles is pressing three fingers against his hole, trembling and panting, and Derek is forced to acknowledge that the idea might be just a little too ambitious. Stiles's toes are curling, his head shifting from one side to the other. There's a tension in his body, a hesitation and uncertainty even before Derek hears his stuttered, frustrated whine.

 

“You _can._ ” Stiles thrashes his head more firmly, and Derek can't help the growl that bubbles out of his throat. “ _Yes_.”

 

Stiles's chest rises and falls on a deep, careful breath, and the lines of his body relax as if it's just been waiting for confirmation. Derek's eyes are locked on him, on the fingers slowly pushing inside, on the way Stiles wriggles his hips on a breathless gasp when they're buried deep. He moves slowly at first, careful thrusts as he finds his limits, and even before he begins to build his rhythm he looks utterly debauched: stretched open, needy and eager for Derek to see, hands and hips moving in tandem now as he chases every last scrap of pleasure he can bring himself. Derek can't help but imagine what he would look like with Derek's cock filling him instead, riding him hard and fast until Stiles was begging for more.

 

When Stiles comes it's in a sudden, messy burst that Derek barely takes the time to savor before he's on his feet, already heading for the window. He needs to get out, to get home where he can take care of the desire that feels like it's burning a hole in his gut. Stiles's breathing is slowing behind him, his heartbeat coming down to a normal rate; by the time Derek has a hand braced against the windowsill he can hear him stirring lazily.

 

 

“If you're gonna be a creeperwolf,” Stiles says, sounding sated and fucked-out in a way that makes Derek _ache_ , “you'd better be ready to put out next time.”

 

Derek can't help the soft laugh that escapes. This is a terrible idea, and it could only ever end badly.

 

“Leave the window open again tomorrow.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, please feel free to follow me on Tumblr at [hungrylikethewolfie](http://www.hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com)! You'll find general flailing over fandom things, as well as the occasional insight into my Very Professional Writing Process. ^_^


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